


Hot Fuss

by cecilkirk



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Ryden, the ryden slowdance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:55:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The slowdance to The Killer's "All These Things That I've Done"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Fuss

“On in an hour, guys.”

Ryan takes a deep breath, lets it swirl in his lungs, releases it slowly. Lately it seems he gets nervous sporadically; suddenly one show will become too much to handle. He knew tonight was going to be one of those nights.

Guitars ready, voice warmed up—everything he could control was prepared. But what about the crowd? What if Brendon’s voice suddenly died? What if Spencer burst the kickdrum three measures in? What if—

Brendon dances along to his ipod, waltzing around the room and mouthing lyrics, pointing to stagehands and silently serenading them. When he turns to Ryan, he puts an earbud in. He recognizes the song immediately, grinning.

Brendon tosses the iPod under a chair across the room, holding out his hand to Ryan, face less of a caricature because now he’s actually singing. “Another head aches, another heart breaks. I am so much older than I can take.”

Ryan places his hand in Brendon’s. Brendon pulls him in quickly, and Ryan grins. “And my affection, well, it comes and goes,” Ryan harmonizes softly.

“I need direction to perfection, help me out,” Brendon sings, exaggerating the syllables to make them crisp and punchy. He grabs Ryan’s face. “You know you gotta help me out.”

“Yeah, you know you gotta help me out,” Ryan sings meekly, cheeks burning as he still holds Brendon’s eyes. Brendon grins at Ryan’s voice.

“Oh, don’t you put me on the backburner,” Brendon sings, putting Ryan’s arms around his waist and his own around Ryan’s shoulders. “You know you gotta help me out.” The voice catches on Ryan’s neck and his stomach knots.

“And when there’s nowhere else to run, is there room for one more sun?” Ryan sings, his voice getting progressively louder to match Brendon’s volume.

“These changes ain’t changing me, the cold-hearted boy I used to be.” Brendon looks down, not meeting Ryan’s eyes but not much lower. He feels his cheeks flush.

The chorus brings both their voices, melting and blending and loud, or maybe just loud to them. Brendon finds the rhythm and leads them to some semblance of a dance.

 _I got soul but I’m not a soldier_ repeats, and they both sing it—separately, alternately, and then together. They dance, they sing softly. Brendon puts his head on Ryan’s shoulder and Ryan grins. He closes his eyes, rests his head against Brendon’s. Touring meant traveling, always being a nomad. It was easy to think you didn’t belong anywhere when you had no stable home, but Ryan was relearning this. He knots his fingers around Brendon’s waist, pulling him tighter. He can disappear in this moment, lose every negative feeling. He feels like he’s found home.

Brendon suddenly pulls back and away. “Show time, bud,” he says with a grin. It melts the knots in Ryan’s stomach, the tightness fading into peripheral, filling warmth.

He doesn’t know if there’s any string of letters and digits on some street he can call home, but he feels like he could reside in this moment for the rest of his life.


End file.
